


Pieces of Us

by Aleeab4u



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aleeab4u/pseuds/Aleeab4u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it all comes crashing down, sometimes the only thing to do is stop and pick up the pieces. AH, one-shot, E/B, Rated M for mature content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces of Us

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters found herein are the property of Stephenie Meyer, author of the Twilight Saga. 
> 
> Warning: This o/s contains material meant for adult readers only.

Pieces of Us

. . . . . .

He pulls into his driveway, and immediately notices her car. Walking past it on the way to the door, even with the tinted windows and the glare of the early afternoon sun, he can still recognize the clear shape of a suitcase in the backseat. The black one; a little battered from their last trip to Seattle, the airline tags still on it. Forcing himself to keep moving, he makes his way through the front door and the silent house until he reaches the bedroom, stopping in the open doorway, his suspicions confirmed.

She looks up, beautiful and poised as always, her expression unreadable, further confirming what he already knows. More suitcases lay on the bed, another at her feet. She meets his eyes with an expression that can only be described as wary.

"Going somewhere, love?" His tone is sarcastic, and he thinks for a moment that she winces slightly, but the expression is so fleeting and rapid he can't say for sure.

"Edward, I thought you were going to meet me for lunch?" She refolds the garment that lies in her hands, her only outward sign of nervousness as he watches her intently. He cannot tell what she's thinking, and he wonders briefly when he stopped being able to read her.

Keeping his expression as neutral as hers, he shakes his head. "I agreed I'd meet you, but I never agreed to lunch."

When she called him only an hour ago, he knew something was up. He might not be able to read her expressions anymore, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know her, doesn't know what she's capable of. So he left. Walked out of the office and a very important meeting to drive straight home.

She frowns and places the item in her hands in the suitcase, breaking eye contact, and probably breaking any chance of his understanding this – any of this. "I'm sorry."

Two simple words, and he can feel his heart cracking right along with his tenuous grip on his temper. "You're sorry?" His voice is flat, barely registering his emotions.

She nods and continues to pack, her movements methodical, determined. In that moment he realizes that love and hate can co-exist in one emotion. Jamming his fisted hands in his pockets, he tightens his jaw to keep the words he wants to scream at bay. She hates a scene, would in fact do pretty much anything to avoid one, including asking him to meet her for lunch so that she could dump him in a place so public it would guarantee his best behaviour.

"So you're leaving." It isn't a question, but she nods anyway in confirmation, as if he needs it.

"Why?" He fights to keep his tone quiet. It takes everything he has and then some. He's never been the patient type, and she knows it.

She looks at him with her eyes blazing. It's only then that he realizes her anger is simmering just below the surface as well. She's like a deep, seething well of vitriol, overflowing all over the perfect, new, modern shag-rug beneath their feet.

"Don't, Edward. Don't do this, okay?" Her voice quakes, rising and falling several octaves up and down the scale, half plea half demand.

"Do what, Bella?" His voice rises as well, and this time her wince is obvious, just as clear as the pain on her face.

"This," she says, the anger she's been attempting to curb slipping past her restraints. "Do not fucking act like you care."

For a minute he can't respond, frozen to the spot, incredulous. Whatever fragile hold he's had on his anger disintegrates, and he's striding across the room towards her seeing every shade of red known to man. Grabbing her arms, he pulls her closer so he can glare in her eyes-those beautiful, damnable, perfect brown eyes. It's all he can do not to shake her until her teeth rattle.

"You think I don't care? You think I fucking want this?" He lets go of her and turns away, struggling for some semblance of control. His breathing is harsh as he loses the battle and walks over to the dresser still covered in her belongings. Miscellaneous items she hasn't yet packed – lotions, make-up, perfumes – all the little increments of day to day things that once gave him so much pleasure to see there, simply because they were hers. Things that meant even if she wasn't here, she'd be back. Things that once reassured him of her love for him, and the life he wanted to build with her.

Now they were just things, nothing more than inanimate objects, and they mock him. With one brutal sweep of his arm, he sends it all flying, crashing against the wall and floor like tiny missiles. He hears her sharp cry mingling with the sound of shattering glass, and the sudden, overpowering reek of perfume that makes his eyes burn and water. At least he tells himself it's the perfume, but his reflection in the mirror above the dresser ridicules him, tells him different. He drives his fist into the image, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone meeting glass, and watching his expression of weakness vanish in the falling shards. He wishes it were that easy to get rid of the feeling itself. He raises his fist again.

She grabs his arm from behind, screaming his name, but he still manages two more blows before her efforts can jerk him back.

"Stop! Edward, for God's sake, quit it!" She is crying without tears as he turns back towards her, and she takes a few quick steps away as if she is afraid of him. She probably is. He can't imagine what he looks like right now. He should feel ashamed, but all he truly feels is rage, spinning in his mind like a dervish, as frenzied as a windstorm and just as uncontrollable. His heart pounds in time with the pain in his split knuckles.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Edward?" She wraps her arms around herself, and he can see she is trembling.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" His voice is a roar, and she flinches, takes yet another step back. "How the hell can you ask me that, Bella?"

He takes a step towards her, and she stiffens, though she doesn't move away. Instead, she straightens her spine, and lowers her arms slowly as the flight or fight response unfolds within her.

Before she can make a move, he's crossed the small distance between them in two quick strides. He grabs her again. Her fear is full-fledged now, and he's glad and sick all at once. He's never hit her, never hit any woman, but in that moment a terrifying part of him realizes he has the capacity for that kind of sick violence. That she could bring him to such a dark revelation only fuels his anger, even as it allows him to rein it in.

"How dare you ask me that! You stand here like some kind of fucking ice-queen, packing your God damned bags so that you can walk out without any warning, and you have the fucking nerve to ask me what's wrong?"

She tries to pull away, anger turning her pretty features hard and cold, masking some of her fear. "Yes! Yes I have the fucking nerve, Edward. You don't care, not about me, not really, not anymore. So what is it? Am I hurting your pride? Did I beat you to the punch, leaving you before you can leave me?"

"You think I don't care about you?" He doesn't give her the chance to answer as he gives in to his primal instincts and shakes her. Not hard, not enough to hurt, but enough to make her head bob on her shoulders. "I think about you every fucking second of every day, Bella. I can't imagine my life without you, and you know it. So what is it? Are you fucking someone else, is that it?"

She manages to wrench away, and she slaps him hard across the face. Even though he feels the contact in the heat of her palm, he feels no pain, too lost in his anger to register it. He wants to slap her, too. The effort to restrain that impulse makes him shake.

"You bastard, how dare you accuse me of that! Do you even know me at all? I could never do that to you, and I sure as hell couldn't do that to myself. Not that it wouldn't be justified though would it, Edward? Or can you even remember the last time you fucked me?"

She moves as though to slap him again, but this time he catches her arm and uses her forward momentum to yank her closer. His anger has him so consumed his vision has blurred at the edges – her comment only makes it worse. The truth is he can't remember the last time, and so help him he doesn't want to think that any of this might be his fault. That his neglect and self-absorption is the reason he's losing her is too bitter a pill to swallow when all he wants is to be righteous in his pain and anger.

To stop it, he yanks her closer still, and kisses her with punishing force. He can feel the tender flesh of her lips press painfully tight against his teeth, but he doesn't care. He bites her bottom lip hard enough to hear her cry out, for the metallic taste of her blood to fill his mouth as he pushes his tongue into hers.

Without real conscience thought he hooks his leg behind hers, ignoring her struggles and driving her down to the floor, pinning her body beneath him. The fluffy fibres of the carpet cushion some of the blow, and yet he still feels the shock of it in the explosive out rush of her breath. He keeps her silent with the kiss, that although still hard and punishing, she is now inexplicably responding to.

She meets him in equal brutality, scraping her teeth against his tongue then dragging her mouth away from his, only to bite the tender flesh just beneath his chin. She tries to move beneath him, but his weight bears her down, and it's frighteningly easy to push his thigh between her legs, forcing them open.

She makes a sound in the back of her throat, half arousal, half anger as he grinds against her, letting her feel how hard he suddenly is. Anger, furious anger, fuels his lust, ratchets it up to a level that is near pain. Twisting, she pushes against him, trying to draw her leg up and under his body, but he pushes more of his weight against her, and she has no choice but to submit. She gives up so easy he knows she wants to submit...

He kisses her, even harder than before, and she responds with equal intensity, making his jaw ache from the pressure. Ignoring the slight pain, he presses her closer and doesn't relent. In one swift movement, he reaches between them and yanks at the soft, cotton material of her skirt, jerking it up around her waist. She wrenches her mouth away and tries to shove against his chest. He only rocks forward in response, pressing one hand hard into the muscles of her thigh, forcing her legs wider. The friction of his jeans against her skin makes her wince, but he's beyond caring as he tries to pull her panties out of the way.

He tells himself, justifies to himself, that he'll stop if she tells him to.

She doesn't. 

There is no sound in the room, only the harshness of their breathing as she yanks his shirt away from his skin, her hands sliding beneath the bunched up material in sudden acceptance and demand. Sharp, manicured nails rake against his flesh, hard enough to draw blood. She shoves against him once more, digging her nails deeper while her other hand clenches against his side as though to keep him close. Push and pull, acceptance and denial and all the gray areas in between. Her hips meet his, grinding against the proof that this isn't just about anger, that even in his broken hate he still wants her, needs her.

Swearing loudly, he catches her hands and draws them up over her head to escape the biting pain, easily pinning them with one hand. She moans loudly, struggles blindly, yet even as she does so her mouth opens beneath his. She groans his name, kissing him with a hunger that leaves her taste deep in his mouth. Her legs rise up to wrap around his waist as her hips arch to meet him in a demanding circle as old as time, urging him on, feeding the desire just as she has his rage. She whimpers and shudders, and her nipples turn pebble hard beneath her top.

With a loud tearing sound he shreds the silky material of her panties, and feels her pull back with a cry as the shredding fabric bites viciously into her soft skin. Ignoring her discomfort, he scrapes the stubble of his jaw over her neck, and rakes his teeth over her collarbone. Even in his anger his tongue unerringly finds the sensitive hollow of her throat and laves it, relishing the shudder of pleasure the practiced move garners.

He knows her. Knows every secret spot, all the places to touch to make her so turned on she forgets everything but his name...

Using his free hand he wrenches open the fly on his pants. Pressing the tip of his cock against the opening of her body, he feels her go suddenly still beneath him. It is all he can do not to slam forward, his entire body shaking with the need to take her and be done with it. He is high on the adrenaline rush of pure anger, and a part of him desperately wants to tear into her with punishing force. He could take her now. She is powerless to stop him. Yet even in his rage he does not have the heart to complete the movement. Her breathing is erratic, and he can feel her heart pounding against his chest in an odd anti-rhythm of his own. She is still now, as though waiting to see what he will do.

Cursing, he drives his hand down between them and cups her possessively, spreads her with just the tip of one finger and pumps slowly but persistently, until her body has no choice but to open to him. She's already wet, and he knows her well, knows exactly how and where to touch. She begins to tremble against him, growing more aroused even as her eyes flash dismay and anger. Beneath both of those emotions, he can see her heart breaking.

"You're mine, damn you, do you hear me? You're mine," he snarls, daring her to argue, to refute the fact her body can't hide. Pushing his finger deeper into her heat, he forces her to respond, curling upwards and finding that place that makes her melt. He will have her, now, and this is the only concession he will make, this readying of her body.

She surprises him by moaning and arching against his fingers, submitting to him. Has she ever truly submitted to him? He doubts it, even as it excites him mindlessly. "Fuck, yes," he groans.

He removes his hand, and instantly slams into her. He's never taken her like this, but his body won't be denied. She cries out loudly, and he releases her hands, driving into her body again and again, keeping her pinned to the carpet with his weight, forcing her to take his punishing rhythm.

"You're mine," he growls again, and her legs lock around him, claiming him as well.

Moving, matching every brutal thrust with one of her own, she meets him blow for blow. When he pins her hips down, she tightens her legs until he can barely move, taking control away from him. When he bites her neck and curses her, she rakes her nails down his back and curses him in return with equal ferocity, and still they move in perfect synchronization until finally she arches against him with a loud cry. He can feel her shattering in a climax that makes her tremble all over. Even in that moment she claims him, and he can't resist the pull and demand of her body pulsing around his. Slamming into her one last time before everything explodes inside of him, it's her name that tears his throat in a primal sounding roar of pleasure.

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the ragged sound of rapid breathing. His or hers, he can't tell. Maybe both. He pulls away slowly, the pulse pounding in his head painful now, like some Gremlin trying to eat its way out of his brain. His vision feels foggy, coming to him in brief snatches, each one focusing sharper than the previous one. In a moment of clarity, he has the wherewithal to wonder who was submitting to whom?

He forces himself to look at her, and sees that her lip is swollen, a tiny bit of blood smeared across her chin. Blood he can still taste in his mouth. Her arms are still raised above her head, her tender, pale skin already bruising in patterns he knows will soon match identically to the shape of his hands. The remnants of her torn panties still cling to her left hip, pale pink against the reddening patch of flesh running from the inside of her groin to the outer flesh of her leg. The small abrasion seems to throb in and out of his focus in perfect timing with the burning pain in his palm. He knows without looking that the mark there will be startling similar. Sick at himself, at her, he stands.

Bella moves slowly as though drugged, tugging her skirt down, but not before his vision registers the rest of the damage. The red friction marks created by denim are blotchy and mottled on the white flesh inside her thighs. He jerks his pants up, wondering how long before this odd sensation of floating detachment will last. How long before either remorse tears him apart or a return of the anger that has caused the devastation he sees before him, thaws the icy numbness he feels.

Her claw marks on his skin burn and sting, and he knows without looking that she's left bruises on his jaw and chin with her sharp, perfect teeth. They both demanded their pound of flesh and received it, it would seem.

He makes his way on shaky legs to the window and leans heavily against the frame. The previously sunny day has turned dark and overcast. Fat sporadic drops of rain dot the outside patio stones in blotchy speckles. He can't miss the irony.

He hears her shifting behind him, and looks back to see she's moved from the floor to the bed. He moves slowly to stand in front of her, but she keeps her eyes focused on the floor. Slowly, carefully, he reaches out and traces his finger over an already purplish coloured patch of bruised skin just over her right knee.

"I should be sorry." He speaks the words without really thinking, and realizes he is anything but.

She looks at him sharply, her eyes wet with unshed tears. She looks as numb as he feels. "But you're not, are you." A statement not a question.

Still, he shrugs in response before going back to the window. "You're tearing the heart right out my chest, Bella. A few bruises seems like a pretty fucking small price for you to pay."

The rain begins to really come down then, obscuring his view, so he concentrates on the zigzag of the water patterns that are streaking down to the sill. Anything is better than focusing on the sounds of her, moving around the room, finishing the final demolition to his heart.

After a while, the rain slows until he can once again see the yard, the pool, the stupid fucking gazebo that he never wanted, but bought and erected for her. It takes a few minutes more for him to realize that it's quiet again. He closes his eyes, draws the scattered fragments of his mind around him and finally turns, expecting to find the room empty.

She's still there, kneeling on the floor by the broken glass. Her suitcases are back in the closet, and he can see some of her clothes once again hanging beside his. The unbroken bottles of lotions and perfumes are back on the dresser, pushed to the side, away from the shattered fragments of glass from the mirror. Displaced, but not gone. He notices she's still taken the time to arrange them, the way she always does – larger bottles to the back, smaller at the front, favourites to the right, others to the left.

She takes a deep shuddering breath, then begins to pick up the glass, dropping each piece into the pail she's brought from the kitchen. The blue pail with the stupid white daisy on the front that she uses for cleaning; the one that had once sat on the living room floor for a week when the roof leaked last summer. He remembers making slow love to her on the sofa, and afterwards, holding her while they listened to the plinking of the drops falling into that pail. Everything was so easy then, when they were so sure of one another. Before life and jobs and...reality, burst their perfect bubble of new love.

He forces himself to move, to kneel at her side and help clean up the glass. A part of him wants to ask why she isn't leaving. He doesn't know whether to be grateful that she isn't, or afraid. How much more of this can he take?

How much more can she?

A piece of glass sticks in her finger, and she hisses before placing it in her mouth, sucking on the wound. Tears she hasn't let fall this entire time, suddenly begin to stream down her face. They remind him of the rain on the windows. That this makes her cry when everything else did not startles him and shakes him from his numb apathy. He reaches for her hand.

"Let me see."

She shoves his hand away. "No. I'm fine."

Ignoring her, he forces her hand away from her mouth, turning her wrist until he can see the small puncture wound. A bead of blood wells to the surface, bright red against her cream-coloured skin. She hisses again, a small sound of pain and fatigue that brims over with sadness that has nothing to do with the tiny cut.

"It hurts," she whimpers, sounding too young and too helpless – all the things she isn't.

"I know." His voice sounds harsh, though he doesn't mean it to be. "I'm sorry." He's surprised to hear that this he does means. Even more surprised to hear all the things he means it for racing through his thoughts, never quite reaching his mouth. He's never been good at talking, or at apologizing.

Sorry for being a lousy husband. Sorry for not being there for her. Sorry that his life lately never lets him be there for her. Most of all, he's sorry that none of it is anything he can change or fix.

"Yeah, I know." Her reply is soft. It should be tinged with bitterness, but instead she just sounds broken, accepting.

"I don't want you to go." It's all he can offer, the only thing he has. The simple desire to keep her is all he's ever really had to offer, and he knows she understands that, even if it isn't enough. Once upon a time it was enough, back when leaky roofs were just excuses to make love and listen to the rain.

"I don't want to go." The words tremble from her mouth the same way the tears tremble where they catch on her eyelashes. Like his apology, he knows she's saying more than what the words on the surface appear to mean.

I don't want to go. But...

But I can't stay.

But I can't do this with you anymore.

But I need more than this.

Taking the bottom edge of his t-shirt he wipes the blood from her finger, tenderly cleaning it away before pressing the soft cotton tightly down on the little wound to stem the flow of her pain. He hopes she remembers that this is his favourite shirt. He hopes she remembers that it's vintage and one of a kind, and that you can't just fucking buy Rolling Stones concert shirts circa 1975 from the local Target. Most of all he hopes she knows that he doesn't care if her blood stains it and ruins it forever, because it's just a stupid shirt, and she is…everything.

He watches her, and her eyes seem to soften, like maybe she does know. A part of him tries to find the words to tell her, but it doesn't work. It never does. He doesn't have those words. All he has is a head full of useless should haves and would haves. He's a great talker in everyday life when it doesn't count, in his business when it only counts in dollars and cents. Just never with her. Never when it really, truly matters.

After a minute she sighs and takes her hand away, begins again to pick up the glass, methodical and thorough.

Behind him on the floor where he lost it at some point, his cell phone buzzes, sounding angry and insistent and invasive in the quiet of unspoken confessions. He reaches for it, not missing the way her shoulders slump in defeat.

Somewhere inside of him, he makes a decision that doesn't seem to come from his mind. He picks up the phone and shuts it off, drops it in the blue bucket with the white daisy, half full of broken glass and the imaginary pieces of a thousand broken promises. This once he's going to put her, them, first.

It's probably not enough, but at least it's a start. Every happy ending has to have a beginning...

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. :)  
> Aleea


End file.
